


Even Songbirds Can Be Silent

by Mango_the_lemon_fox



Category: Cartoon Therapy (Web Series), Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Cutting, Death, Everyone is a jerk at atleats one point, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Human AU, Human Sides (Sanders Sides), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutilation, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Torture, Touch-Starved, Violence, animal cruelty, like a lot of swearing, suicidal idealization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24658288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mango_the_lemon_fox/pseuds/Mango_the_lemon_fox
Summary: “Who..are you..?”“I’m Roman Regius, though my friends just call me Prince, I'm a senior at Crofters high.”“Virgil Grey.”“So Virgil, would you mind telling me how a winged fellow like yourself ended up bleeding out in a forest?”(Aka, the author found some way to go on a drug trip without drugs and it’s 3 am send help)
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 42
Kudos: 155





	1. Art is subjective

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, here are a few disclaimers.
> 
> First, the poetic jumble that is a lot of this first chapter is only present when Virgil is confused Or the scene is trying to be over dramatic. It will not be like that the whole time lol.
> 
> Second this story is almost complete and I will be releasing chapters very quickly. Should be finished in the next day or so.
> 
> Third, please, please, heed the warnings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil has been perfecting the art of death, Roman the art of life, then their stories intertwine.

Friday April 3rd

Death, it’s an art form, one Virgil has been perfecting for years. 

He’d bike under the song of the moon, cold wind ruffling his messy hair, then he’d come to the light. It was one of the few roads that actually had enough budget for street lights, likely due to the high vehicle density. Then he’d charge, tossing his small bike and weak limbs into the mass of cars, light burning his eyes. Unfortunately, the cars always stopped. 

Then Virgil got his hands on a knife. He’d sit in the old school supply closet during lunch, brushing the sharp metal against his unhealthy pale skin, feeling his breath pick up like some sort of masochist. Then he’d bite down, pretty red liquid dripping onto the dusty floor. Hiding his mutilations under a baggy jacket. Eventually, he ran out of room.

But now, he’d truly mastered it. 

Blood pouring from a slit above his knee, drooling like salty waves down beaches of dark violet. Tears welled up in torn tissue, skin hanging limp and puffy, sweat sticking sweetly to his flushed limbs. There was some sort of metal object, lodged gingerly above his right rib, cold, comforting, savory, against burning nerves, breaths sharp, cracking like lightning. Mud filling the scars swarming his arms, an ant scattering across a wrinkled expression. Sterling silver, it was poignant, swirling like bad mouthwash across his tongue. Dirty clothes pressing him into unwanted comfort, a salutary embrace, nose stuffed with jasmine. 

He was going to die, and it would be beautiful.

Then they moved. Colossal clusters of galaxy, shifting, clawing, screaming, demanding. Wings. Warm purple, soft feathers, crushed bones, they were moving. He’d felt them move before, the small flutters, rebelling against cruel bindings: Their stutters, slips of joy on Christmas morning, the warmth of touch brushing past someone on the bus, the hymns of songbirds. And now they burst, wings spreading, scraping up into the dark heavens, elbows rubbing across mossy stone, wind tearing into pulsating lungs, drawing him off the snug ground. 

He was flying. 

He cracked open sun scorched eyes, looking out at the vapid, quivering sky. Behind the light pollution one could skill see millions upon billions of glittering stars, lighting up the darkness like angelic glitter. It was the same sky that lulled him to sleep since he could sleep, the same sky he’d set out to die under, it was gorgeous to an almost maddening degree. His wings shook, their immense span grasping onto thick spring air, arms hanging tout, legs dangling above the secretive evergreens. 

He’d never flown before.

Virgil stirred slightly, wiping some blood off his cheek, feeling cold mud clinging against his tattered clothes. He finally thought he’d done it, ridden the world of himself, the inhuman beast, those devilish wings that antagonized him at every turn. He’d promised to beat the life out of them, squeeze out every drop, yet they persisted, refused to let a dead dog lie, refused to let him die. He was supposed to die. 

He felt the wings begin to ache slightly, softly lowering himself to the ground. He didn’t even resist, they’d never listened, they controlled him, and he was a puppet bound to their feathery strings, held harshly in their passerine grasp.

He landed, feeling prickly pine needles dig into his throbbing skin, a chilling wind lapping the edges of his hair like a mother to its kitten. Seemed the warm mud hadn’t been satisfactory for his avian extensions, instead layng for him to sleep in a bed of dead leaves, a grassy pillow cradling his worn face. 

Then there was a sharp sound, the stumbling footsteps, flash of light. Someone was there. Someone might see him. The repulsiveness of his wings evaporating in an instant, feathers flapping madly. He needed to run, he needed to escape, he needed-

Someone was touching him, someone was holding his hand, someone was combing through his hair. Someone was touching the purple plume crowning his bloody back, flashlight discarded on the cold night floor. It was mesmerizing, the feel of a hand biting down onto one of his quills, a story flowing out in every movement, ink dripping down his lips. 

“I’m going to bring you home, ok?” It had tact, a strong willfulness buried deep within determined auburn. A sly smile simmering brightly in the darkness. A subtle click with each syllable, and with each click, Virgil fell apart.

He answered in his silence, the someone burning brightly into his back, scooping him up like he weighed no more than a button fallen off a lone man's coat, thrown into the bustling streets, crushed under a quickly encroaching train. He was being carried.

“Just hold on...you're going to be fine..you have to be.” The voice soothed, soft like silk. A hoodie, he was held against a warm hoodie, crushed against a zipper, the feel of a heartbeat, a foreign breath rumbling down his neck. 

They exited the forest, a blurry of touch digging into his weak frame, wings hanging crumbled and lifeless, blood trailing the edges of his wounds, the sky swarmed with midnight clouds. Then, he heard the clink of a key, the sliding of a car door, the feel of faux leather. He was in someone's car, a small blanket thrown haphazardly across his middle. He heard someone pound on the brakes, thunder roaring through the whimpering sky. He was supposed to die. He deserved to die. 

Then he was consumed, a sweet numbness filling his flooded brain. He was asleep. Not a single dream plaguing his empty carcass. 

_______________

Saturday April 4th

When Virgil awoke, he was greeted with two  
distinct feelings; The soft warmth of floral patterned sheets, the smell of lavender tea, sun pressed warmly against his hazel hair; Then there was the tight bandages lining his tormented limbs, bruised cheek pressed uncomfortably into a far too soft mattress, his timid wings fully on display, so numb he was sure for a second they’d been chopped off. 

He yawned, muffling the many inclinations to scream, gripping onto the warm blankets, searching desperately for some sort of baring. Where was he? 

“You're awake.” A voice smield.

Virgil tore his head up, wincing as pain trembled through him, looking around as a whizz of questions and answers bubbled at the edges of his bruised lip. 

He was sitting in a small bed, tucked against a large picture window that was covered by cream blinds. The room was small, but not enough to be cramped. It had a summer pink rug, a few bookshelves covered in just as many books as succulents (bleugh, what idiot designed this? Virgil thought crudely), a cluttered writing desk, a door that looked like it led into a small bathroom, and a coffee table set directly opposite himself. 

Sitting at the coffee table was an older teen, he looked around Virgil's age, deep reddish brown locks, baggy jeans, a far-to-red shirt with a golden crown imprinted boldly on the front. He was holding a cup of light golden colored tea, smile peeking slightly as he stared over at the avian, light blue eyes twinkling shyly. 

“Who..are you..?” Vigril hissed, a voice that used to be intimidating, now it was coy, filled with cracks and squeaks, he felt weak.

“I’m Roman Regius, though my friends just call me Prince, I’m a senior at Crofters high.” smirked with a small wink. His voice was deep, proud like a lion. Fierce like a king. But there was an edge to it, an almost unnoticeable tremor. 

“Virgil Grey.” Virgil answered immediately, leaving no time for Roman to ask. Hands quivering. 

“So Vigril, would you mind telling me how a winged fellow like yourself ended up bleeding out in a forest?” Romans asked, taking a sip of his tea that was so small it couldn’t be for anything other than aesthetics. 

“Aren't you...going to turn me in?” Virgil stumbled, turning to gaze upon his torn feathers, he couldn’t feel them. He felt trapped.

“Well I used to have them..but they were removed only a few days after my birth…Guess helping you is my way of making up for loosing them” Roman sighed, eyes turning to a wistful expression. “But that’s beside the point, what happened?”

“It’s not important.” Virgil growled, curling up deeper into the blankets. He hated the pity rolling down Romans face. 

“Not important?” Roman echoed, brow quirking.

“Shut up!” Virgil hissed, wings flaring up before flinching, causing him to double back in pain. 

“Jeez…fine” Roman sighed, taking a final sip of his tea and sauntering over towards the door. “I’ll bring you some breakfast in a bit….” Roman frowned, sliding out the door and into the unknown house. 

Virgil grumbled, hugging himself as he began to examine his ailments. He was dressed in a strange, slightly too big pink shirt with sloppily made holes to fit his wings, black sweatpants, and wine red socks. Lifting up his shirt there was a bandage bound securely around his stomach, pale bruises scorching his uncovered skin. His hands and legs were in a similar situation, neat medical tape running over bloody scrapes. 

He touched one of his wings, it didn’t react, flopping helpless into his rough touch. There were plenty of feathers torn out leaving flaky and weak skin that stretched over thin bone, magenta fur short and maded. 

He lay back down, eyes watering slightly as calm rays brushed calmly against his tiered frown. All the worry, pain, tears, it all seemed to fade away, he was warm. 

_________________

“Made some toast..” Roman huffed, tossing open the door as he walked into the sun soaked room. He was holding a plate of lightly buttered toast with a side of scrambled eggs. His hair was wet unkempt, he’d likely just come out of the shower.

“Thanks….?” Virgil frowned, sitting up as he felt a chill rattle down his spine, everything hurt. 

“Are you going to yell at me again or can we talk?” Roman asked, handing the avain the plate along with a glass of lukewarm water.

“Depends, are you going to ask too many questions?” Vigril responded spitefully, staring quizzically at the food, poking at it lightly with a fork, blanket hung loosely around his sore shoulders.

“I did save you, I feel like I have a right to at least a few.” He argued, taking a seat at the small table, looking longingly out the window into the grassy yard.

“I never asked you to save me, as far as I’m concerned I was kidnapped.” Virgil smirked, feeling a knot build up in his chest.

“Oh? Should I have called an ambulance instead, the authorities would have a field day. Wow, an avian hiding in our little town, let’s cut off its wings and hang them in town square.” Roman mocked sadly, his eyes instinctively looking at his back, glaring slightly. 

“You should have let me die.” Virgil corrected, taking a small bite of his toast, he felt sick.

“Ha, over my dead body.” Roman chuckled.

“That’s not...that’s not funny.” Virgil deadpanned, sampling the egg, it was slightly overcooked.

“You're no fun.” Roman smirked solulmly, resting his head tiredly in his palm, beads of water dripping from his hair down his cheek. 

“Don’t try to be.”


	2. “Ok”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Virgil and Roman tip toe around each other they start to make sense of their situation, and all the blood, tears and antics that come with.

The hot water ran harshly down his frail skin. Warm drops pouring into the deep cuts running along his arms and hips. Warmth melting into the deep gash drawn on his chest, tender comfort stinging as it washed over patches of purple and blue. 

It was so odd to look at. He’d made each cut, wound, bruise, scratch, so carefully. But, he’d never made them for himself. They were for the unfortunate soul who would stumbled across his decaying body, the police who’d analyse him like wine connoisseurs, the diener who’d prop him up to be gazed upon, criticised, complemented, feared, loved, hated, like some sort of abstract art piece.

Vigril sat on the shower floor, water, sweat, tears dripping down his face. This wasn't supposed to happen.

He should be dead.

He wanted to be dead.

Why wasn’t he dead?

Didn’t they want him to die?

Did he want to die?

________________

“Alright, so my parents will be home in a few hours..” Roman yawned, shifting his pencil across his paper. Most of the day had been spent on silence, Vigril drifting thoughtlessly between being consciousness and unconscious, and Roman working on his math work, only taking breaks to either get some food, or walk the families young golden retriever. “This is the spare bedroom and we never go in here so if you keep the lights out and aren't too loud they probably won’t come in here.” Roman mused, chewing his eraser.

“What happens if they find me?” Virgil asked, poking his head out of the covers, brown hair hanging messily over his heavy eyeshadow, cold eyes squinting curiously.

“Probably call the cops.” 

“Sweet, I’ve never been arrested.”

“Trust me, it’s not fun.” Roman smiled. “But in all seriousness, please be quiet.” Roman said rather sternly, placing down his pencil as he walked over and took a seat on the bed. “Could I check your bandages?”

“No.” 

“Well jerky Mc jerkface then your wounds are just gonna get infected.”

“Sounds good.”

“You're just trying to get me to bring you back to that forest aren't you.”

“I am now.”

“Fuck you.”

_______________

The night was cold, night sky falling lackluster across his burning cheek, sickly sweet honeysuckle sliding through the crack under his door and into the shrinking room. 

He dug himself deeper into the blankets, feeling the cloth hang tight across his skin. Breaths hitting the walls and bouncing back even more intensely. He gripped the mattress, clinging on as if he was about to tumble effortlessly off a cliff, body crashing into sharp rocks, tearing apart into millions of bloody shards.

He rolled his head above the covers, it was warm, too warm. Heat,he was burning. Breath rising up in his throat, shooting out fire like a dragon. Warm tears pouring down his flustered face, cold hands clutching his chest, sobs pouring, ridged coughs. 

Was this what dying felt like?

_________________

Sunday April 5th

“What’s that.” Virgil asked, looking over at Roman who was busying himself with his laptop,rapidly adding to some sort of endless wall of text. He looked determined, frozen T-shirt complementing the disney songs he was humming between the click of keys.

“Well if you must know I’m working on a screenplay. There is a talent show coming up and I plan to perform a brilliant one act masterpiece.” Roman proclaimed dreamily, hand brushing back a loose strand of golden brown hair in a cartoonishly over dramatic effect. 

“Screenplay huh?” Virgil played with the words. “Didn’t know you were a theater nerd.” He smirked leaning back on the soft pillow, bandages holding him annoyingly structured, an uncomfortably rigidness. 

“And I didn’t think someone who was on the edge of death, is wanted by the government, I'm hiding in my home and caring for would be such a brat, but here we are.” Roman sneered back, eyes refusing to look away from the screen.

“Kidnapper.” Virgil responded, but it wasn't very fierce, instead it felt weak, forced, maluiable. 

“You can leave anytime.” Roman sighed.

“Nah, I think I’ll stay.”

_______________

April 6th

Vigril awoke to the sound of Roman bursting open the door, he had a few books tucked under his arm, medical tape and gauze clutched in one hand, the other holding a toothbrush. “Here”, he set the books and supplies down on the bedside table.

Virgil just stared at him.

“It’s Monday so I have school, here are some notebooks In case you want to draw, and if you're not going to let me change your bandages at least do it yourself..it’s the only way you're going to get better.” Roman sighed, giving Vigril a pleading expression.

‘I don’t want to get better’ was hanging on the tip of his tongue but he just shrugged it off, giving Roman a simple “ok.”

“My parents are at work, feel free to eat whatever you can find in the kitchen.” Roman called, sticking his toothbrush back in his mouth as he stumbled out the door, stark black boots slamming hard against the hallways wood boards. 

Virgil spent most of the day in bed, arms hung helplessly across the far-too colorful covers, wings falling out onto the soft mattress, and his head consumed by daydreams. At first it was nice, Roman wasn't constantly nagging, the irrationality click of keyboard, his stupid Disney songs blasting on the speaker. 

Then it was lonely, the room vast and dreary, silence impending and cold, a sad breeze whistling through the foreboding curtains.

He got up.

First he took a second to shuffle through the drawers in his bedside table, Roman had found him a few darker sweatshirts and even a grey sweater with a light blue rain cloud in it, one he quickly threw on, placing the light blue sleep shirt in the small laundry bin. Then he dressed in a pair of dark jeans, throwing on some beige socks.

It was a strange balance the two had fallen into in the last few days. Roman would ask where he was from, who had hurt him, and hundreds of other equally terrifying questions, and Vigril would go silent. Then Roman would give him things, like food, clothes, medicine, even just someone to listen to, and he’d get loud. Shrinking away as if help brought with it some sort of awful disease. Yet, Roman seemed persistent, determined, strange. And Vigril was hurt, timid, alone. 

And so they continued. 

Letting the silence beg both the questions, ‘where do you come from? And, ‘why do you care’. And answer them with intelligible shadows. 

His wings didn’t fit well under the sweater, so he ended up tying them down with the medical tape, they hurt like hell. 

Then he moved on to surveying the room, he looked through the bookshelves, staring contemplatively at the sketchbooks, and eventually found himself going through the papers scattered across the writing desk. 

The papers were mostly crude scribbles, sheet music, some unfinished scripts, and old homework. But oddly enough, Virgil found himself reading through them for hours. There was just a beautiful novelty in the dry dialogue, neatly organized keys, a pleasantness in the quickly scribbled math problems, and a ‘cuteness’ to the simple drawings. 

But of course that trance didn’t last forever, and eventually he found himself in the kitchen, eating a mostly brown banana as he surveyed the rack of knives.

It was bound he’d end up there, staring at each glittering tool like a kid does to candy. Almost a given he’d end up touching a few, finger sampling the perfectly sharp edges. 

He was starving.

He ended up picking up a small one, a carving knife. bringing the small thing back to his room. There he could hold it, study it, paint with it, taste it, gorge on it.

When you first do anything really, you're afraid. You're afraid you won’t be good at it, afraid you’ll get made fun of, afraid...it’ll hurt. 

He wasn’t wasn’t afraid.

Blood splattered across the pink rug, skin curling, slicing thin like butter, dripping down his wrist. Water ruffled his tear strewn cheek, waterfalls colliding into valleys of sun soaked mountains, butterflies, lifeless kittens, the whistle of a train, silent song birds.

“Vigril?”

__________________

“It’s ok.” The feel of a rain battered jacket, cosy drenched blossoms, the sound of a heartbeat. Roman was hugging him, enveloping him in tight grasp, head fumbling into his messy hair. Blood was still dripping, falling, falling, falling. It was raining. Thunder echoed outside. 

Virgil didn’t answer.

Roman let go of the embrace, walking over and picking up the medical tape, a small rag, all Vigril could hear was the spring rain pounding in the windows, drops clouding his vision. He was crying. Why?

“Could I see your arm?” Roman asked, he sounded like he was coaxing a stray dog, a sympathetic smile slipping across his freckle strewn face. 

“Why do you care, you don’t even know me?” Virgil asked, holding out his arm, curling in on himself slightly.

“Well I guess it’s kinda selfish..” Roman sighed, wrapping Virgil's arm in a towel as he tried to stop the blood, Vigril flinched. “You see, I got into a lot of stuff way back..and so I don’t really have any friends..at school or anything..so I’m a bit lonely..” Roman sighed, wiping Virgil's arms with some antiseptic. “And a few days ago.. I was taking a walk in the dark..I was crying.” Roman chuckled. “Kinda pathetic.” He started wrapping Virgil's arm in some medical tape. “I was just really lonely..and then I found you.. and...it almost felt like a sign, a sign that everything was going to be ok.” He finished wrapping up the cuts. “And yeah, I don’t know you, but I want to.” He smiled. “Maybe then, we can both learn to be ok.” 

“Ok”


	3. Nowhere is a sucky destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman and Virgil soon find they may have more common ground than they once expected, but the past is a looming riptide.

April 8th

“You like it?” Roman asked, the two were sitting together on Romans bed. It was Virgil's first time seeing Romans room, as he had insisted Virgil couldn’t see it since it was a disaster. And to be fair, it was. The white rug was covered in piles of clothes, Disney plushies, and stacks of paper, the light strawberry walls bedazzled with way too many posters.

“It’s decent.” Virgil relented, he was scanning Romans WIP script, so far it was only around 5 pages. “I like this character, he’s pretty mysterious.” Virgil mused, pointing to something in the script. 

“Oh, Sir Bailey, he’s actually the twist villain.” Roman smirked.

“What’s his motive?” Vigril asked, he was honestly quite curious.

“So it’s sorta like built into the theme of the story. He wants to destroy the castle because he feels that everyone else just sort of stands in the Royalty’s shadow. Yet, the royals feel like they are in the shadow of what everyone else wants. It is about how we all want to be in the spotlight, but no one is working in the lighting booth...in the metaphorical sense that is. It’s kinda ” Roman smirked. 

That was the day Virgil decided he liked the passion burning in Romans eyes, it was oddly beautiful. 

________________

April 12th

The street was quiet, mostly populated by a few bikers and the occasional slow truck. The strong aroma of burning gas, lawnmowers roaring, a dead squirrel laying crushed against the curb. 

Maybe Brackput had just always been a lackluster town. Each citizen beaten into the same dry routine,  
rolling up under tangled covers, gazing out your cracked window at polluted stars; Wary walks to school/work, cloth bound knives tucked into torn jeans; And sitting at the small cafe next to the turn onto the highway, the one that serves those mystery smoothies if you know who to ask. 

Virgil followed Roman, walking down the cracked sidewalk, through a bent metal fence, and into the small local park. 

“It’s nice isn’t it?” Roman asked, pulling Virgil's hand and leading him over to a small wooden bench.

It was as much as Virgil didn’t want to admit it, rather ‘nice’. Lime grass dappled with morning dew, pebble paths, a stoic oak tree, and a small pond filled with baby frogs. 

“It’s alright….” Virgil relented, taking a tentative seat on the old bench, feeling the afternoon sun soften against his face. Wings fighting their harsh bindings. 

“So, where are you from?” Roman asked, sitting down, leaning back and staring up at the sparse clouds.

“Nowhere.”

“No, where?”

“I used to live a few towns over, happy?”

“Doesn't anyone miss you?”

“No”

___________

April 15th

“You ruined everything!” Virgil half yelled, attempting to keep his balance as he stood on Romans bed, fists clenched at his sides. “I thought, I thought I loved you!” Virgil whimpered, bringing one of his hands to grab the fabric covering his heart. 

“Love? maybe you should go read a dictionary!” Roman yelled, swinging a faux sword in an over dramatic manor, causing Virgil to bounce back, falling onto the soft mattress. Roman jumped up in the bed, pressing the sword against Virgil's neck, some rays of sun pouring in through the window, shadowing his face in light.

“Are you going to kill me?” Virgil asked, gritting his teeth as he forced out a malice smirk. “Wouldn’t that be ironic.” He pressed his neck up against Romans sword. “A few months ago, I was trying to kill you.”

“I wish you did.” Roman grimaced, pulling the sword away and tucking it into his scarberd.

“What are you doi...ng.” Virgil stuttered, a worried glance casting over his flustered expression.

“What you don’t have the guts to, the right thing.” Roman finished, then he broke into a small fit of laughter. “You're a really good actor..like wow.” Roman smirked, flopping down to sit next to Vigril. 

“Really?” Vigril asked, sitting up and brushing some hair out of his eyes. Smiling slightly.

“Yeah, like, that was amazing!” Roman enthused, “I mean I was better of course, but you were really good!” Roman enthused.

“You were pretty good.”

“I was? I mean, yeah I know, I’m the great Prince Roman.”

“Yep”

________________

April 20th 

“Are you..dying your hair?” Vigril asked, peaking through the door to see Roman sitting atop the bathroom counter. He had on black gloves, lathering some strange clear substance across his brown hair.

“Oh, yeah...I am.”

“What color? Virgil asked walking over and taking a seat next to him on the counter, cold eyes flashing a brief twinkle.

“Brown.”

“Isn’t it already brown?” Vigril asked, watching curiously as Roman continued to comb the goo through his stark hazel hair.

“Well my hair is naturally red..but it’s kinda ugly” Roman sighed, staring into the mirror. “See the tips are starting to grow out.” Roman stretched out a strand of hair, the end was a light rust.

“I guess I think you’d look great with any hair color.” Vigril said, not even comprehending what he was saying.

“Oh..thank you.” Roman smirked with a light blush.

_________________

April 21st

“Be fucking gentle.” Virgil hissed, slouch shrinking as he crossed his arms, hair hanging over his face like the branches of a willow tree. Roman was helping him rebandage up his back, guess the ‘prince’ had finally started to grow on him, not that he’d ever admit it.

“I offered you some painkillers!” Roman yelled back, trying the bandages up with a frustrated sigh, a cool spring breeze running through the colorful room.

“Screw painkillers” Virgil grumbled, staring down at his scared arms with a muffled whimper.

“There.” Roman half smiled, brushing Vigril feathers out of his face.

“Don’t touch them!” Virgil growled, springing back, nearly falling off the bed.

“Your wings?” Roman asked before shaking his head. “But they're sooo soft.” He smirked, reaching out with ‘grabby hands’. 

“Heck no!” Vigril yelled back, tone softening as he saw Romans face fall slightly. “Maybe” 

Vigril scooted back over to sit next to Roman, extending one of his wings cautiously, a thin scowl plastered across his face. Roman gingerly took one of his wings in his hand, running his fingers through the soft amethyst plume, neat feathers grown over scraggly healed skin. 

“They are really soft.” Roman smiled, his tone no louder than the chirp of a baby chick. A slight blush spreading across his face.

“Obviously.” Virgil snarked, clicking his tongue slightly, he felt oddly flustered.


	4. 12:18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgils birthday has always been an...unlucky date. Though all things are subject to change.

October 5th

Virgil was young, but not young enough to be young. Sleeping peacefully in a bed of old quilts. His fluffy hair hanging messily over tired eyes, hands grasping onto a small toy bunny. The train car shook, causing him to awake with a start, small wings fluttering pulling him into the air for just a moment before he fell tumbling onto the wood floor.

“Virge?” A young voice squeaked, a boy peeking his head out of another pile of sheets. He looked only a tiny bit older than Virgil, half of his face covered in tiny green feathers, deep black hair tucked under a moonlight grey beanie.

“Sorry.” Virgil responded coyoshly, crawling back up into his blankets, his wings retreating.

“You flew.” The voice continued, a smile brimming across half his face.

“I guess, it’s not a big deal Dee.” He whispered, shyly.

“Yes it is, I wish I could fly.” Dee smield, scrambling out of the blankets and running over to give his brother a small hug. 

“It’s not like I can do it on purpose, they sorta have a mind of their own.” Vigril sighed, wrapping his small wing around his brother, looking at the lime plume carpeting his right cheek. “Anyways, even if you don’t have wings...you still look pretty cool.”

“You are the only one who thinks that.”

“Mom did.”

“Moms dead.”

“Doesn’t mean she was wrong.”

Vigril had spent most of his life with his three brothers and mom alone on the edge of a small suburban town. She taught them how to hide their feathers, how to stay strong, and most importantly how to be quiet. 

And when she died, all of that fell apart.

“She was wrong about a lot of things though..”

“What do you mean?”

“She said you wouldn’t live past 6.” Deceit mumbled.

The train shook again, rumbling across the old track, pebbles thrown haphazardly into the night air. The distant sounds of coyotes piercing the fragile silence, warm rose, calm daffodil, fresh strawberry winds drifting sharply through the cracks in the old box car.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“Me and Rem would miss you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’ve always been a pessimist.” Dee smield, leaning against Vigrils shoulder. 

“You’ve always been a liar.”

“Hey, let's look at the sky.”

“What if someone sees us.”

“It’ll be fine.” Dee chuckled, getting up carefully as the car shook, walking over and opening the small latch holding the doors together. They immediately swung open, flailing helpless in the wind before being pinned down against the train. The two scooted over to sit on the edge of the boxcar , legs dangling off the edge, staring off into the infinite sky, mellow valleys, playful dear, fluffy clouds.

“It’s beautiful.” Vigril relented, wind running through his hair.

“Wish Remus could see it.” Dee sighed, looking over at the sleeping boy curled up in a small basket. He looked no younger than 5, long brownish grey hair, a light green shirt, grey camo shorts, adorned with a stick-on mustache.

“He would try to jump out.”

“Yeah”

“Oh by the way, Happy birthday Virgil '' Dee smield, the moonlight glinting in his one yellow eye, barely noticeable beneath the haze of green.

October 6th

They ended up sitting there for hours, staring at the stars in a never ending silence, a silence that was truly made eternal when the train ended falling up off the tracks, tumbling off a cliff at exactly 12:13 am. 

Vigril turned 9 only five minutes later. 

12:18 am.

__________________

October 8th

“So your siblings passed away in a train incident?” The lady asked. She pushed her glasses up her long nose with an irritable click of her tongue, eyes squinting as if they were aiming in preparation for an attack, mouth grinning like a wild beast. There was a tag clipped to her neon orange shirt, ‘Miss Loosie’.

“Fuck, really.” Vigril mocked, grinning as he saw the lady flinch slightly when he cursed. He got that kind of reaction a lot, everyone thought he was small. 

He was not small, he would not let himself be small. When cars tread cautiously next to him as he rode his bike, he rammed into them. If others saw him as a poor wounded animal, he'd bite. And when he felt like he was made of glass, he broke. 

“Please don’t curse at me.” She sneered, taking a tired sip of what her coworkers presumed was water. 

“What’s the point of this again.” Vigril groaned, leaning into the uncomfortably stiff office chair.

“You are here Virgil so that the doctors can take a look at your wings and we can have them removed so you can go back to living your life.” She said robotically. “This meeting is just so we can make sure you're ready for such a procedure, take into account any trauma”. She drooled.

“Why do they have to be removed?” Virgil asked.

“Wings were a genetic disease, their sudden appearance shocking the world. And with such a shock came plenty of hatred, avians becoming high targets for crime and violence. It was horrible. So, it was decreed that all winged folk be stripped of their feathery appendages, lest they lead to more suffering” She sighed, her soft blue eyes crashing with Virgil's razor brown. 

October 9th-April 2nd  
(7 years)

Vigil ended up fleeing before the doctors could strip him of his wings. Living on the streets for a few years, going off what he could find. 

______________

Blood, blood everywhere. Soft mewing, the warmth of hot chocolate, soft waves of darkness. What was happening? Where was he? Tears fell sharply down his face, cutting deep bloody noches in his puffy cheeks. He clenched his fists, eyes darting around nervously. 

He was sitting in an alleyway, dressed in old worn clothes, sweet pouring down his forehead. There were two boys in front of him, they were tall, strong, scary. He was afraid. The kitten. It lay on the dirty ground, it was crying, blood drenching it’s snow white fur, glazed yellow eyes, jaw hung open, unhinged.

“Why, did you do that…?” Was all Virgil could manage to rasp out, tears soaking his shirt, hair muddy drenched. His wings lay behind him, clear as day, dismembered red liquid pouring from the amethyst appendages. 

They didn’t answer, no one could answer, there wasn't an answer.

Only shadows.

_________________

Eventually, he bound his wings down, found someone who could forge his paperwork, and started living at an orphanage, going to school, making friends, even if only in appearance, and falling back into a semi normal routine. 

Then, someone found out. They saw his glittering feathers, peeking under the bathroom stall as he changed into his sports clothes. 

So he ran away, taking only a rusty crowbar, and the will to end it all.

April 3rd 

He failed.

___________________

April 22nd

“Virgil? Are you awake? I had a bad dream...and I don't want to be alone ....”

“Me neither.”

It was 12:18.


	5. Louder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadows, forsaken memories, and tragic outcomes began to collide as a bird forgets its manors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm this chapter got really long, uhhhh good luck not getting lost lol
> 
> Drinking game:  
> Take a shot every time you read the word flesh/skin (jk don’t you’ll definitely die).

April 25th

“What are you doing again?” Virgil asked irritably, looking up from his sketchbook. Over the past few days he’d found himself getting rather into art. He’d never taken much of an interest in it before, but when one has access to Romans seemingly infinite closet of art supplies, they are bound to turn eventually. 

“I’m setting up this extra mattress because my cousin is coming over and he’s going to be using the spare bedroom.” Roman groaned, that was probably the 15th time he’d explained it.

“Shit, do you snore?” Virgil asked absentmindedly, drawing some clouds in his ashy sky.

“Why are you asking if you don’t want to pay attention to what I have to say?” Roman sighed, laying some light blue covers over the fluffy white mattress.

“Not sure, I just like the sound of your voice.” Virgil smield inattentively, he was really getting into his drawing, it was some sort of fantastical landscape, dragons, fairy’s, castles, all that jazz.

“Oh.” Roman paused, blushing slightly as he tossed some pillows out of the closet. The ‘Prince’ feeling something burning in his chest.

“Roman!” Someone yelled, presumably his mom, from downstairs. He zipped up his jacket walking over and tugging on the door handle. 

“Guess there here, I’ll be right back, keep your wings hidden ok?” Roman asked, he looked at least a bit nervous.

“Been doin it my whole life.” Vigril called, flopping on his back, laying his book down for a second, sinking into Romans comforting mattress. “It’ll be fine.” He added, voice oddly soothing.

“Thank you.” Roman smiled, slipping out the door, it closed with a short ‘thump’.

Virgil stretched his hands up to grab onto Romans pillow, pulling it into a tight hug. It was warm, the smell of Romans shampoo, he lay his tired head onto the soft fabric. He’d been doing that a lot lately, hugging things, especially things that reminded him of Roman. Not that there was any correlation, nope. 

His wings flexed slightly, pushing against Virgil's baggy light purple sweatshirt. He’d honestly been getting used to having them out, and god it felt nice. Feathers broke out of their cruel coils, bones flexing as he stared dreamily out his bedroom window, the feel of sun on soft plumes. 

It was addictive.

Romans door slammed open. 

Stepping in were two boys, they looked slightly older than Roman. One of them had strawberry blond hair, coy brown eyes, freckles splattered across his face like a kid with glitter. He was dressed in a baby blue T-shirt and a grey cardigan hung sloppily around his shoulders, light jeans, unlaced shoes, grey socks, arms covered in an array of multicolored friendship bracelets. Sweet glasses hanging on the top of his small nose.

The other, he was tall, like really tall. He had on a dark blue dress shirt, a way to formal striped tie, dessert tans pants complimenting his dry stance. His hair was a dark red, brown eyes plastered sternly on his face that looked like it was molded into a permanent frown.

“This is my cousin Logan” Roman smirked, pushing past the two boys and leading them into his room. “And his boyfriend, Patton. But they haven't told anyone, so keep it on the down low.” Roman added, sitting down next to Virgil. 

“And you are?” Logan asked calmly, taking a seat at Romans desk, Patton flopping onto the red bean bag chair. 

“Virgil” He answered rather breathlessly, too many new people made him nervous. And two's a crowd.

“It’s so nice to meet you Virge!” Patton smirked, leaning back into the comfy chair, looking at Virgil with an expression he could only compare to that of a begging puppy. 

“Same to you.” Vigril said coyly, starting to bury himself back into his sketch. 

There was a beat of silence.

“So, what should we do?” Roman asked, he was leaning on Virgil's shoulder, a fact neither of them seemed too keen to bring up. “I was hoping we could all hit the smoothie place but it’s raining and this hair is looking far to perfect for that.” Roman added, looking rather bored. 

“Can we pla-“

“Not eye spy again, we did that the whole car ride.” Logan sighed, his voice was impressively plain.

“But I spy someone cute blus-“

“No ones blushing!” Logan stamerd, attempting to hide his face by looking out the window. He was wrapping himself one a shy hug, hands gripping his shirt, crumpling the neatly pressed fabric.

“They are now.” Patton smiled, looking over at Logan with a dreamy expression. 

“Affection is gross.” Virgil chuckled, rather hypocritical as his hand had found itself resting hesitantly on top of Romans, gaze averted as he attempted to focus on anything other than the burning in his throat.

________________  
April 24th

“So Virgil tell me about yourself?” Emile asked, a smile creeping at the edges of his lips, the bubblegum colored tips of his sleek brown hair hanging playfully over his soft blue eyes. He leaned in his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap, brows curving in a questioning inclination, legs crossed, clad in tan pants, a light pink suit.

“Ah you’re the idiot Roman snagged off the streets? I’ll assure you I can’t be fixed.” Virgil smirked, laying across the couch in a mock fashion. Hand hanging off the side, purple nail polish scraping against the poorly lit wood floor, eyes dripping with snide dross.

“I’m his brother.” Emile sighed, running his hand through his hair, a smile faltering lightly. He looked, worried? “Currently working as a therapist for older teens and young adults, I’m fresh out of college.” He smirked, a bluebird singing outside the small open window. “I'm not here to ‘fix’ you, you're not broken. I’m just here to listen, offer the best advice I can, that’s all I can do after all.” He smirked sadly, taking a sip of his rosemary tea.

“Cute.” Virgil mumbled. 

“Now, why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

___________________

April 25th

“Let’s play truth or dare!” Roman suddenly yelled, standing up as Virgil tumbled sideways, landing squarely on the soft bed. 

“That’s a great idea!” Patton piped up standing as he joined in Romans excessive excitement. 

Logan who had flinched slightly just started at the two, he was trying his best to look all calm and cool but anyone could see the small smile fold on the end of his frown as he started over at Patton. 

“Fuck.” Virgil grumbled, pulling himself back up, snuggling deep into his hoodie as he watched the two idiots hop around the room. 

“Now watch your language kiddo.” Patton corrected, his sternness contradicted by the bright smile blessing his freckled face. He and Roman were gathering to sit in a circle on the rug.

“Kiddo?” Virgil questioned, slowly creeping over to sit next to Roman, keeping a steady distance. Truth or dare? He couldn’t think of anything worse.

“That’s just what he calls everyone.” Logan sighed, hestently taking a seat next to his boyfriend. Said boyfriend, wrapping him in a small hug.

“Soooo who wants to go first?” Roman asked, an evil cackle erupting from the back of his throat. He was already scheming some sort of madness, and Virgil, he was mildly terrified.

“Logan wants to!” Patton laughed, grabbing Logan’s by the wrist and waving his hand in the air. Logan just sat there looking both mildly upset and mildly bored.

“Truth or dare Logan!” Roman yelled, pointing his finger accusingly at his cousin, he didn't react.

“Truth.”

____________________

April 24th

“So, you had siblings, what were they like?” Emile asked, adjusting his tan cardigan slightly. He looked rather contemplative, still cheery, but tactful, an unknown purpose lingering in his small smile.

“Well they were jerks, but that’s kinda what I loved about them.” Virgil chuckled, staring up at the ceiling, sinking into grey cushions. “My older brother, his name was Janus, but we all just called him Dee. He was a pathological liar, a really good one. He once convinced his entire class that the reason he had to wear a bandage over half his face was because he had a scare from beating up a whole pack of wolves. But, like they actually believed him!” Virgil chuckled slightly 

“Why did he wear a bandage?”

Shit.

“Oh..he had this birthmark and he was really embarrassed about It...”. Virgil sighed. It wasn't that much of a lie.

___________

April 25th

“So Logan, have you ever….ummm” Roman thought for a second, giving Logan a curious glare. “Kissed anyone.” Roman accused, brandishing a small smirk.

There was a bird chirping rather loudly outside, singing happily in the dreary rain

“Yes.” Logan answered plainly. He was leaning against the wall, Patton resting gingerly on his shoulder.

The bird began singing a bit louder, voice shrill and proud.

“Great question.” Vigril smirked, rolling his eyes.

It sang louder.

“Hey, I dare you to think of a better one.” Roman frowned defiantly, crossing his arms with a huff.

Louder 

“Have you ever kissed someone Roman?” 

Louder 

“That’s...that’s the same question!”

“I know.”

Louder

“No….I haven’t..”

Silence

——————-

April 24th 

“Sometimes, I think I tried to kill myself for somthing stupid.” Virgil lolled, laying his head back, closing his eyes with a short sigh. Talking was insufferable, but quiet was unbearable.

“What do you mean?” Emile pressed, pen clicking against his clipboard, voice turning eerily soft. Pity. Virgil hated pity.

“Well...I thought it’d make me feel pretty. Like i've spent my whole life having to hide my wings, my whole life being told I’ll never be pretty as long as I’m like that.” He sighed, pressing his hand to his forehead, his head hurt. “But if I was dead, bloody, broken, maybe I could finally feel beautiful.” Virgil chuckled nervously, “god, I’m vain.”

“Wings?”

_________________

April 25th

“It’s fine Roman, you’ll kiss someone when you're ready.” Patton smield, reaching across the circle and giving Romans hand a light squeeze.

“Ok…” Roman muttered, tucking his knees to his chest, curling into an unusual silence.

“Umm, Virgil, truth or dare?” Patton smiled. Though there was something strange in his eyes, something foreign, he looked afraid.

“Truth.” Virgil sighed, the room was starting to grow tense, his breaths digging into his lungs.

“What’s your um..favorite color.”

“That’s your best question?” Vigril smirked, he could feel his nails digging into where he was clutching his other arm. “Black, like my soul.”

“I think I’m going to step out for a second..” Roman announced, standing and staring to hurriedly make his way over to the door. He honestly looked like he was about to burst into tears, cheeks a rosey flush, head hung, hands jammed into his jean pockets.

“Roman are y-“

“I’m fine Virge, just going to get a drink of water

“I think I'll get one too.” Logan butted in, following Roman out into the hallway, door sliding closed with a slight creek. 

__________________

April 24th

“I-“

“Are you an Avian?”

“Yes..” Virgil relented, sitting back up and looking rather defeated. He could feel his wings riggeling beneath his clothes, feathers tickling his scarred back, biting, whining, crying. 

“Roman used to have wings you know, but they were removed, mom cut them off…”

“Not the doctors?!”

“No….If we had them removed professionally...it would be in his medical history, schools, jobs, he’d be discriminated against. The whole process sets up anyone in it for failure” Emile sighed, pouring some sugar into his tea, mixing it gingerly with a small spoon. 

“That’s awful..”

“Yeah, especially since most of his family is a bunch of idiots who really hate avians. His cousin Logan in particular..”

_________________

April 25th

After a few moments of silence, Vigril walked over and peeked out the door, no sign of Roman or Logan.  
“So, Patton, fancy seeing you here ?” Virgil deadpanned, leaning against the door, hand held protectively against the handle. 

“Virgil is it really you? I’ve missed you.” Patton stumbled, slowly getting to his feet, eyes blissful and teary.

The bird started singing outside the window again.

“Fuck off Patton.”

“I’m serious, it's been years.”

“Too few if you ask me.”

“I didn’t, why? Why do you hate me?!”

“Why? You left us.?” Virgil barely stopped himself from yelling. “Oh I’m sweet little Patton I don’t have any physical Avian qualities because I’m just a special little snowflake. I’m just going to go off with a dad and live a perfect little life. Brothers, who?” 

“It wasn't like that and you know it.”

“Patton, after you go off with your perfect HUMAN BF, I never want to see you again.”

“Little brother...I...”

“I’ll tell your damm boyfriend, maybe he can’t see it, but you have the gene. He will want nothing to do with you and you know it!” 

“I’m sorry..I’ll leave you alone.” Patton pushed past Virgil and fled out the door. 

“Good” Vigril sighed, his voice cracking slightly as he walked over and took a seat on Romans bed.

His sobs were drowned out by the cry’s of a lonely songbird.

____________

August 2nd 

The sun room was small. It had only a few pieces of furniture, a tattered couch, small glass coffee table, and a desk covered in plants ranging from beanstocks to cactie. The two boys were sitting on the window sill, staring out into the warm day, sun coming in through the glass walls.

“See Virge if you hold out your hand like this..” Patton held his hand out the window, fingers outstretching in a beckoning manor, a small laugh tearing from his lips. “Someone might come give you a little visit.” And just as he had said, a small robin landed on his arm, claws lightly digging into freckled skin, puffing its red feathers proudly. 

“Wo...w” Virgil smirked, reaching out to the pet the small bird, but it fluttered off after he got too close, hand barely grazing the sharp quills. “It doesn’t like me.” Virgil sighed, closing his hand into a fist, pressing it against his chest.

“Nonsense.” Patton smiled, dangling his legs out the open window. “Pushing people away, that’s simply a part of love.” 

“I think you're looking too deeply into it, it's just a bird.”

“Maybe my little songbird.” 

“Clever.” Virgel flexed his wings. 

_______________

April 25th

The rest of the day was spent in fleeting glare, entertaining silence, and rippling tension. Logan going off to work on school work, Patton clinging to his boyfriend like his life depended on it, and Virgil and Roman going over his almost finished script. And as it came to a close, two found themselves staying up rather late. 

“Vigril?” Roman asked, his voice breaking through the darkness, silence unraveling, a soft breeze blowing through the askew window.

“What is it Princey?” Virgil asked sleepily, laying back on the mattress, looking up at where Roman was sitting on in his bed, the faint light of his phone visible beneath the covers.

“What does it feel like...to kiss someone?” He asked, Vigril watching as Roman coiled deeper into his blanket, a slight blush dancing across his nervous expression .

“It’s kinda hard to explain.”

“Oh…”

“I mean.. I could like, show you…?”

“Show me?....!”

“Fuck, yeah that’s sounds even stupider out loud.”

“Yeah, kissing me would be kinda stupid…” Roman sighed sadly.

“Stop feeling bad for yourself and get down here.”

“Ok,” Roman slipped down off his bed, still wrapped in his blanket. Slowly he inched closer to Virgil, half attempting to hide his flustered face in the red sheets.

Virgil lifted his hand up to cradle Romans chin, feeling the sharp bone beneath blushing skin, the ‘Princes’ eyes looking away shyly. 

The kiss was soft, like warm marshmallow roaring over a small fire. Then, it burned, the gooey dessert lit on fire in an instant, melting, and melting, chocolate dripping, gram cracker colored hair. Roughness, a prickly curling at the edge of his tongue, flames rolling down the edges of his spine. It felt like when he kissed Roman, he could finally feel complete. That maybe art didn’t need to be bloody, didn’t need to be painful, didn’t need to be dead, that it could live and live and live and live. And it would be beautiful.

He wanted to live.

But he was going to die. 

Romans arms were wrapped around him securely, hand grasping into lavender wings, running through the soft quills. Kiss deepening, nose pressed sloppily against Romans cheek. Fire. Fire. Fire.

He felt like he was flying.

No.

It was better.

“It’s cute how your wings flap when you're happy.” Roman mumbled into Virgil's lips, they were both profusely red. 

________________

May 12th

There was no doubt about it, the thing was dead. Virgil cradled the small fledgling in his warm hands. It must have fallen out of its nest, tossed carelessly onto the sidewalk, newborn feathers crowding it’s wafer thin hide, pretty lifeless eyes.

“I wonder if whatever pushed you out loved you?” Virgil asked, stroking its flimsy brown pinions. He pressed his finger gently against its beak. “Shh, don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to know.”

He felt Patton’s shadow fall over him, he was enveloped in darkness.


	6. Love is a piece of cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil and Romans relationship begins to blossom, but the stench of blood is still wafting through the heavy air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deciding on a chapter name for this one was really hard for some reason. Here are some rejects,
> 
> Hot, Cold
> 
> blood guts and sweet kisses
> 
> Blood on my hands, knife in my pocket
> 
> Also, the next two chapters will hopefully be two parters and we can finally have a finale! I’m just having a hard time getting to the ending. This was originally only supposed to be 5000 words!

September 2nd

The scissors slipped tenderly under down feathers. It was gentle, nurturing, calming cool metal. Sharp edges dragging sweetly across the wing lining, striking against the feathers, petting the white plume making up the mantle, grooming remige, prepping soft ivory fringe. It was nice really, like bringing a bokay of flowers to lay next to a loved one's grave. 

Cold.

Cold.

Cold.

A solace chill.

_____________

April 26th

Virgil awoke to two very poignant questions. 

First one happened to be about the head resting gingerly in the crook of his neck, the arms hung loose, but firmly around his waist, soft breaths running down his spine. Their legs were tangled together like the bow on a present, hands pressed comfortingly into his soft blue shirt, head snuggled amongst chestnut.

Second one, how could he make it last forever?

________________

September 2nd 

Then they struck. Sheers crisp like warm autumn air, lacy fathers descending helplessly, lifeless silver fronds. The metal ground deeper, plucking the muscle as one does to the strings of a harp, grinding against hollow bone, rust pressing into knobs and joints, ripping up clots of blood, foaming liquid spilling onto white tiles. Nerves spitting and spasming, carmel waves of numbness, burning sand. 

Hot.

Hot.

Hot.

He was burning up.

_______________

April 26th

“Rom-“ Virgil asked softly, feeling himself being pulled into a tighter embrace, lips pressed gently against Virgil's neck, fingers loosely digging into his shoulder bones, spine twisting as he furrowed deeper into the mass of warmth.

“Yes Virgil?” Roman asked kindly, a small yawn melting softly into his unusually bowed tone. He pulled the avian closer, Virgil snuggling into Romans chest, hands clinging onto soft fabric, steady heartbeats, wings hanging floppy and placid, singing content.

“It’s nothing, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t dreaming…” Virgil sniffled, burying his face into Romans shirt, makeup he’d forget to remove smudging the red fabric. 

“Did we kiss last night?”

“Having morning regrets?” 

“Ha, you wish.”

“The only thing I wish is that you're open to doing it again.”

______________

September 2nd

They tore back, feathers globing and dripping, waterfalls of blood, sweat pouring down his back, stale metal scraping and dancing across his weak hide. A flower garden of plume sticking, clinging, pulled out like weeds. Roots extracted deeper from the cavern of his bones, needles stabbing, rapidly like shots of a machine gun.

Roses.

Marigolds.

Forget-me-nots.

Daisys.

Pansies. 

Lilies….

“It’s alright Roman, just like a haircut, but for your little flappers.”  
____________________

April 26th

“I think….I really like you.” Roman whispered, pressing a sweet kiss to Virgil's forehead, cheek crushing against his lips, hands hung tightly around his waist.

“But…?” Virgil squeaked, staring into Romans determined eyes, his tearfully expression locking with golden auburn, cheeks reddening. He moved his wings slightly, “im like this..?” 

“So?” Roman smirked, reaching out to comb through fluffy purple feathers. “I think there beautiful.” 

_______________

November 12th 

There is something forbidden about blood. The immense desire to cover it up, an illusion that if we hide it away, all the pain will stop, It never stops. swelled deep beneath velvety skin, rich beads of muscle, flustered nerves. Drool slipping over layered blotches, mulberry, orchid, magenta, heather. Metal soft on warm flesh, so cold, deeper and deeper into the fire, put out the fire. Cold. Hot. Cold. Hot. 

His body shuttered, it was giving away, falling, breaking. Wings spassemed, cracking and shivering, snapping. Peeling off in wrinkles, clumps, cutting away, he needed to be cold.

Flames.

A slice of cake, knife covered with delicate purple frosting, soft orange sponge, rainbow sprinkles. Gently sliding the piece onto a paper plate, rubbing the knife on the side, leaving a chunk of sticky sugar. Then again, and again, and again, crushing, smushing chunks of pastry. Blood, it was pouring, dripping down the table, filling the shower floor.

Water, there was so much water, he was drowning, drowning in the dripping fire. 

_______________

April 26th

The two eventually made their way to getting dressed, brushing their teeth, and Roman making some burned eggs.

“Are we up early or something?” Virgil asked, taking a sip of his orange juice, legs dangling as he sat nonchalantly atop the kitchen counter.

“No, Patton and Logan are just not really morning people.” Roman yawned, sinking in his chair as he rested his head atop the faux ash quartz. “Hey, what was with you and Patton? You kept glaring at each other.”

“Overly happy people get on my nerves.” Virgil grumbled, poking at the barley edible yolk, looking tiredly out the kitchen window, a small rabbit grazing on the dew sprinkled sprouts.

“Fair.” Roman relented, letting out another yawn, head cradling his forehead. 

“Did you get enough sleep?”

“Not really, had this question floating around my mind…”

“What is it?”

“Virgil when I found you out in the forest, who did that to you, who hurt you?” 

A hawk swooped down and snatched up the rabbit.

“What can I say, I’ve got blood on my hands. Literally and metaphorically.”


	7. Rainy days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the days pass and rain continues to fall, Roman and Virgil attempt to sort out the beauty of suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update:  
> I’ve gotten around to giving all the chapters summaries.

Love is said to be a two way street, learning how to be loved on the other hand is a four way intersection with a permanently broken traffic light. 

April 27th

The living room was silent, the two sitting there cuddling up in an old quilt as rain slammed against the thin walls. 

“What are we going to do Vigril?  
I’m just worried, worried about what’s going to happen to you…”

“Why?”

“How am I supposed to go to school if when I return you might have just killed yourself in my bedroom.”

“Sheesh, the blood will come out of the sheets.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I’m sorry I’m such a liability…”

“It’s not your fault, I’m just lost....”

“I think I used to think this was a good thing. That people would like me better if I was falling apart, that there was something beautiful about being put back together…”

“What do you mean.”

“Blood just isn’t as pretty as I thought.”

“Why would you think that?!”

“Well I grew up being told how awful I was, how hideous these are!” He puffed up his wings in emphasis. “I needed, I needed to fix it, I needed to fix myself, and I couldn’t! So I thought, if I tore open myself, pulled out my own organs, someone would put my parts back the right way, that I wouldn’t be broken.” His face had become red, tears clinging two the corners of his eyes, sticking like molasses, taunting him as they burned his flushed skin.

“You are not broken.”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying, that’s what I keep telling myself, that’s what I told Emile, but my skin still feels too weak, my limbs too heavy.”

“That’s ok, that doesn’t mean you're broken.”

“Maybe I should be..” The avain sighed, hiding his head in the blanket.

“Virgil!”

“I’m sorry, ok, I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t be putting this all on you, i'm sorry for fucking ruining your life.”

“Virgil if it was too much I’d tell you, and you couldn’t possibly ruin my life, I love you. I just want you to be ok.” Roman whimpered, pulling Virgil into a slightly too snug embrace

“I think I want that too.” Virgil sniffled. Peeking a head out of the covers, tears dripping down his face.

___

April 29th

“Here, this is my phone, this is my brother's contact, you know who you have been talking to every week or so, call him if you aren't feeling alright.” Roman smiled, handing Virgil his mobile phone and a piece of crinkled paper with a number scrolled across it in what could only he describe as cursive for numbers.

“I don’t think I am alright.” Virgel commented sarcastically, adding some shading to his drawing of a lighthouse, a bird chirping out of his room's window. (He’d moved back after Patton and Logan had left a day or so ago.)

“That’s shit and you know it.” Roman said, wrapping Vigril into a short hug, pressing a small kiss to his forehead. 

There was the soft hum of rain outside.

—

May 1st

“What’s wrong?” Vigril asked, yawning as he looked over to see Roman typing oddly furiously on his laptop. His fingers looked rather sore, eyes teary and determined, and a frown knit sloppily across his face.

“I just... do my plays suck?” He asked almost out of nowhere, a short blimp of panic rushing over his now mixed expression. His foot was tapping against the floor worriedly.

“Where would you get that idea, you're like really good!” Virgil said, sounding rather surprised walking over to look at Romans computer screen.

“It’s just, I don’t know..”

“They're beautiful, just like you.” Virgil smield, pressing a small kiss to Romans cheek.

__

May 10th

“Virgil please.” Roman sighed, leaning against the bathroom door, feeling his hair run over his face, sweat pooling in his brow, eyes low and urgent. “I’m not mad, I just want to help.”

“I- I don’t want you to see me like this!” Vigril called back, the click of a metal object falling onto the hard tile floor. “I’m a mess.” He added, sinking down to lean against the over side of the door, blood dripping down his cheek.

“That’s ok, it's ok to be a mess sometimes.”

There was a short silence.

The door slided hesitantly opened, Vigril taking a seat up on the counter as he rubbed some of the red off his cheek, head hung.

“What happened Stormcloud?” Roman asked walking over and starting to go through the cupboards, pulling out some gauze, bandaids, medical tape and a hairband.

“I just got overwhelmed.” Vigril admitted sheepishly kicking his legs back and forth as he tried to imagine he was anywhere else.

Roman took a seat next to him on the counter and began wrapping his left arm in medical tape, humming the tune to a disney movie Virgil couldn't quite place. “It’s ok.” He smiled, placing a bandaid over the cut on his cheek. “You can’t just expect to get better just because you want to get better, it takes time.” He added.

“Everything hurts.” 

“I know.”

Rain dripped down Virgil's cheek.

___

May 15th

“They're kinda cool, look like battle scars.” Virgil whistled determandly as he studied Romans bare back. There were deep scars dug into discolored flesh, straight white lines with blotches of red in between. 

“I guess.” Roman sighed, hugging his arms around himself, shivering slightly a small tremor running through his weak tone. 

“Trust me, they don’t make you any less beautiful.” Virgil smield, wrapping Roman into a tight hug, ruffling the ‘Princes’ hair with a velvet wing.

“I guess.” 

“Don’t you mean I yes.” Virgil attempted, pressing a small kiss into Romans freckled cheek, arms hung protectively around his chest 

“That, that didn’t make any sense? It sounds like something I would say.” Roman chuckled relenting as he looked over his shoulder at the avian with a shy smile.

“Guess your off rubbing on me.” Virgil smield sleepily, sinking into the warm embrace.

They feel asleep cuddled under the lullaby of lightning.

—-

May 17th

It was raining, streaks of wispy tears streaking off of the glossy windows, thunder pounding against the wall, and the smell of steamy hot chocolate and calming mint tea wafting through the spring air. Roman and Virgil were sitting out on Romans front porch, the blissful storm setting peacefully on their heavy minds.

“I’ve never liked the rain.” Virgil commented absentmindedly, snuggling up into Romans warm embrace, head leaning against his slightly water stained Shirt. 

“That’s ironic for my Stormcloud.” Roman smirked, hand dancing sweetly through Virgil's soft hair, eyes locked with the whimpering sky, a bolt of lightning flashing across the oddly lucid stars.

“I told you that nickname isn’t going to stick.” Virgil hissed, though it was rather muffled as he had tucked his smile into Romans jacket. 

“Oh we’ll see about that.” Roman laughed maliciously, sinking into the old bench, shoes kicking against the dusty porches floorboards, they were covered in a light dusting of moss. 

The two sat in silence for a while, just embracing each other's company, bits of rain blown under the roof and lightly damping their clothes, but not the evening. 

“Hey Roman?” Vigril then asked rather suddenly as he slowly slipped out of Romans arm and got to his feet. There was a determined look shimmering in his eyes, slowly he reached out his hand. 

“Virgil?”

“Just take my hand…”

Roman gingerly slid his fingers between Virgils, and before a moment could pass, he felt himself being tugged towards the porch steps. There was this placid look hung sweetly over his face, strawberry jam splattered across his cheeks, rain dripping down his chin. 

Virgil tossed off his sweatshirt, two ornate wings sprouting like spring blossoms out of the holes cut in the back of his light lavender shirt, it really was true what they said about April showers, they really do bring May flowers.

feathers shuttering slightly as they were hit with a few light droplets of rain, curling and rolling down purple plumes. Virgil guided Roman down the steps, water crashing down onto the dry clothes, droplets aining down there beaming faces, curling in the bags beneath their eyes, running down the groves in Virgil's wrists.

Then as the flustered storm began to shake and scream, Virgil wrapped his arms around Romans waist, wings batting against the wind, pulling him up into the heart of the storm, flowers torn from the garden gravitating and whirling around them. 

It was blinding, lighting, the beating of feathers, the barking of a dog. But none of that seemed to matter, Roman finding himself folding into the depths of Virgil's coy brown eyes, hand cradling his shoulder blades, a soft smirk sliding across his lips. 

“We’re getting soaked.” Roman smirked softly.

“So.” Vigril laughed lightly, leaning in to press a soft kiss against Romans lips, water still lurking like tears, a welcome chill hanging between their embrace. Then as dark clouds gathered over the sun casting the world into a seemingly eternal darkness Virgil flipped around tossing Roman into his back and he began to soar through the dark sky, clasping hands held kindly over his shoulders. 

There were so many feelings that came with flying, the pain dripping through his beaten bones, the warmth of salty tears clinging against his lashes, the shivers rolling down his spine. It was so different than blood, so distainly estranged, but just as alive. 

They flew silently over the town, staring at the masses of traffic, a few kids huddled together under a single umbrella, someone running through the rain after a stray cat. Sailing over schools, under traffic poles, trying to to join a cluster of birds, hiding in a patch of sharp clouds. 

And Finally finding themselves perched up on Romans roof, as the rain became nothing more than a distant memory. 

“Roman I-“

“I love you Virgil,” Roman smiled, pulling him in for a short kiss.

“Hey, you beat me to it!”

“Guess my boyfriend is just a little slow.”

“Boyfriend? I think I like that word”

“Good, you're going to start hearing it a lot” 

—  
May 18th 

The sun was quivering, drifting slowly towards the dark horizon, a chill running through the lightly glazed grass, a few blue jays digging for worms amongst the spring mud. Patton was walking along the sidewalk, his arm linked nervously with Logan’s, the fond night sky hung above them like the perfect touch to a perfect painting.

But, it wasn't perfect.

Patton stopped, pulling his arm away and taking a few steps back, nearly tripping as his shoelace caught in a small divot in the concrete. He looked at Logan cold steel melting his wavering worry, like fire and ice, melting, fear dripping down his neck.

“Patton?” Logan asked voice tame like a trained puppy, but there was a wildness two them, like if someone teared the auburn out of his sockets a deadly poison would roll froth his freckled frown. “We need to get home, it’s going to rain.”

“I’m...breaking up with you..”

“What?”


	8. Il faut souffrir pour être belle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil and Roman start to venture into the future, Patton and Logan worry in the present, and they all run from the past.

May 21st

Mirrors, writers, dreamers, alike like to talk about them a lot. Wonder why? 

Maybe it's the novelty of it all, gold frames, perfectly placed glass, and in an instant, billions of fragments, there existent simply begging for meaning. Or, what if we’re all just parrots, chirping up in an old crab apple tree, parroting what others have built before us, snakes daring us to take a bite of the greatness we so desperately crave. What about nostalgia? Reminiscing over the place we first saw ourselves, our disembodied mind met our disembodied body, the first time we felt whole. 

Virgil himself had even encountered the beast, pulling it in for a well needed interrogation. Yet, before he could force out a confession, he’d found himself examining the portrait painted in the glass, framed on the bathroom wall. His skin was tight, bones pressing against soft fluster, there were deep scars, faint bruises, and a few fresh cuts dancing across his chest, lines chiseled down his legs. 

He spread his wings, hands licking through fuzzy feathers to reveal deep pink skin, indents, wounds and discoloration soaking them like splattered paint, clear watercolor draining down his somewhat recently wounded cheek. Maybe each puncture, graze, laceration, were stars, his skin a stormy sky. And with that idea in mind, he’d connect them. Constellations wrapping around his thighs, images of a mighty twilight bear scrawled on his wrist, an eternal forest dug into his back, flowers spun up to his knees. 

But as much as he could make some sort of beauty out of them, they still brought tears to his eyes, made him sob uncontrollably in the darkest depths of midnight. So as he sat shivering in the bathroom, the small clock he’d see when he’d woken up suggesting it was around 4 in the mourning, he realized the only one who could confess was him. 

Light streamed through a window, it was sharp and blinding, like the sun was literally pressing into the glass. It was hot, burning into his skin. He looked around, the bathroom was small, the tiny window perched near the ceiling was clothed in peach blinds.

He continued searching for it, the light was getting stronger, pain pulsing through his body, everything had made sense a minute ago, now his world seemed to be melting into oblivion. He wanted to scream, to tear out his flesh to cool his boiling blood, sweet dripping in webs down his back. Then, he closed his eyes.

And they simultaneously opened.

That dream was a slightly altered memory from 3 years ago. When he’d been living in an abandoned house on the edge of some town he couldn’t remember. The memory made him ill, forcing a sweet sickness down into a knot twisted organs. 

He was tied up in Romans arms, head pressed against his chest which was clad in a loose light red shirt, he stirred slightly, craning his neck so he could look up into Romans slightly askew eyes, sleepy hazel. “Hey.” He smiled.

“Hey.” Roman smiled, back then he broke into a bellowing yawn, stretching as slowly spun out of Virgil's grasp, sitting up, looking around the room with a tired curiosity.

“Are you alright Virge, you were kinda fitful in your sleep.”

“Alright? Let's figure that out later, I’m tired..” he mumbled, reaching out and grabbing back onto Roman, burying his head into his chest, a sleepy haze pulling back into a spiral memory.

—

May 18th 

“Patton?” Logan asked, almost as if he were questioning the name itself. He took a small step towards Patton but when he noticed his boyfriends (?) worried expression, he backed away. “You're breaking up with me?” He asked, the night air ruffled his neatly combed hair. 

“Yes.” Patton burst out before his voice disappeared into a mix of incoherent stutters and whimpers, he wrapped himself into a tight hug. Rain had started pouring sweetly from the sky, drops mixing with the tears slipping down Patton's cheek.

“What did I do?” Logan asked simply, wiping some drops of rain off his glasses as his lip began to tremble, eyebrows forking together as he let out a small hiccup. 

“I...I..I’m breaking up with you before you..break up with me.” Patton stumbled, baking away into the darkness as his expression was consumed by the rain.

“Why would I break up with you?” Logan asked, his usual blank tone, water soaking his dress shirt.

“Because, I’m, I’m not a human?!” Patton trembled, “and your a..you don't want to be with me!” Patton sobbed breaking off into the storm as thunder rattled through the empty street, the closest streetlight to Logan bursting into flames. 

—-

May 25th

“He broke up with you?” Roman asked, his voice daring into the silent darkness, grasp tightening around his phone as he pressed it against his ear. It was around 11:23 at night Roman had stepped just outside his room so that Virgil, who was snuggled up in his bed, wouldn’t be woken.

There was a muffled voice on the other end of the line, something along the lines of, ‘He said something about not being human or something and I’m not sure what he means… than he ran off.’ 

“Not human?” Roman asked, he sounded almost nervous, a strange complexity dancing through his voice, “Maybe, he’s an avian.” Roman said, turning worriedly pale.

“Oh.” Logan answered curtly, taking a moment Roman assumed so he could taste the words, an uneven hush settling in the dark air. “I guess that would make sense.”

“Would you still want to be with him, if he you know...had wings or something..?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, I don’t think I know if this conversion is worth continuing.” 

Roman hung up, he was shaking slightly, a strange feeling of freedom wafting through him. He broke into an adrenaline fueled smile, sighing as he stepped back into his room and slammed the door closed. Tossing his phone onto his messy floor as he curled up in his bed, his head resting in Virgil's feathers. 

—

June 5th

“Patton?” Patton lived in a small house on the edge of a rather obscure rural town. He was in the care of his dad and his dad's girlfriend but he rarely saw them as he spent most of his time hanging around Logan’s place. He hadn’t been to Logan’s place at all in the past few weeks.

“Patton?” Logan asked again, pressing a few more polite knocks to the uncomfortably white door. Patton’s house was an odd one, it had playful blue walls, a red checkered roof, and ruby stained windows, sometimes Logan wondered if the windows caused Pattons rose colored vision.

“Pat?” Logan asked for a finale time, he swore his hand was becoming sore from knocking, he’d come to Pattons door three times over the course of the last week. He sighed, looking at his unread texts and walking off into the afternoon.

—-

June 6th

“So….do you like chirp?” Roman asked rather suddenly. He was sitting out on the porch enjoying the cool sun. Roman had built a birdhouse in a workshop and Virgil had offered to paint it. As his question cut through the silence, Vigril looked up from where he sat on the path leading up the the porch, staring at Roman as he kicked his legs back forth from his seat atop the second highest porch step. 

“Chirp?” Vigril asked, starting on the second layer of dark pink for the small home's roof, brush tangling amongst a few inconsistencies in the wood.

“Yeah...like since your kinda part bird…” Roman said trailing off as he noticed Virgil's expression change rapidly. “What?” 

“Chirp?” Virgil asked again, but his questioning tone was lost as he broke into a small fit of laughter, clutching his chest with his free hand as Roman grew into his own fit of embarrassment.

“Hey, it’s a valid question.” Roman defended haughty.

“Chirp??!” Vigril asked for the third time, “I’m not a bird Roman, I just have wings.” He smirked with a small finale chuckle.

Roman crossed his arms, looking thoroughly embarrassed, the soft sun burning in his shy brown eyes. “Sorry..” He half mumbled, staring off Into the distance.

“Hey, I appreciate you trying to learn more about me.” Virgil smiled soothingly, setting his paint brush down and walking over to give Roman a small hug.

—-

June 8th

“Virgil?” Roman asked, poking his head through the doorway. The avian was simply laying in his bed, blasting some unusually soft music. He looked tired.

“Yeah..” he yawned, sitting up only to flop back down on his pillow. 

“Patton’s on the phone, he wants to talk to you.” Roman said eerily, handing Virgil the phone, giving him an odd glance and then slipping back out and into the hall.

“Yes?” Virgil hissed, holding the phone to his ear, looking around the overly pastel room, and as his heart quickened, it felt as if all the light colors only existed to taunt him.

“I broke up with Logan.”

“You what?”

“I want to fix it. I want to be your brother again, and if Logan’s in the way...maybe we just aren't meant to be..”

“Patton…?”

“I’m sorry.”

Virgil hung up, tossing the phone across the room.

——

June 11th

“Virgil isn't it great!?” Roman beamed, he had pulled Virgil into a bone crushing hug, gushing on and on about how wonderful whatever it was, was. 

“Isn’t what?” Virgil asked blankly, attempting to slip out of the embrace to no avail. Eventually he ended up spreading his wings and flapping them to get Roman to release him. He’d been enjoying some peaceful drawing when Roman burst into his room and just started going on a rampage.

“This.” He smiled, holding out a piece of heavily crumpled parchment. Squinting Virgil could see it was one of his screenplays, the title of which being ‘Veil of Shadow.’ Next to the title, was a small golden ribbon, red accents tucked amongst the glowing fabric. “I won a contest for it at school, remember the one I told you about.” He said, you could hear the smile in his voice 

Vigril just grabbed him by the jacket, pulling him into a far less forceful ug. “Your amazing Roman.” He smirked.

—

June 15th

“Hey Virgil? Patton is coming over to use the kitchen, you aren't going to fight right?”

“Why would we fight?”

“Well you just, sorta seem to dislike him. I don’t know, maybe i'm looking too far into it..”

“What’s he using the kitchen for?” 

“Well he said he needed to make apple crumble for some event and doesn’t have most of the ingredients so I said he could just come make it here.” 

“Tell him i'd like to help.”

“You would?!”

“Sure”

Virgil pulled some flour out of the cabinet, adding it to the massive pile of ingredients occupying the small counter. Patton was grabbing a bowl from the opposite side of the kitchen. That’s how they had conceded to move around each other, lines: Unspoken boundaries. If Virgils was on the couch, Patton had to sit at the edge of the living room, If Patton was in the front yard, Virgil went to the back. And even as they baked together, these lines stayed, scooting around each other as if any contact could cause the other to combust, maybe it would. 

“Did you melt the butter?” Virgil asked, or as his tone would imply accused.

“Not yet..” Patton stuttered, quickly slicing the butter and placing it into a measuring cup. Then, he crossed over towards the microwave, he was crossing a line, and in return Vigril shifted around the counter, building a new invisible barrier.

Virgil poured some flour into a plastic blue bowl, following it up with some brown and white sugar, a teaspoon of cinnamon plus some lemon juice. “The apples aren’t cut yet.” Virgil stated dryly, staring down at the bowl of ingredients with what could be either disgust or guilt.

“On it!” Patton called quickly, rushing the cup of butter over to the counter as he had forgotten to use a mit and it was burning his hand. He grabbed a cutting board and started haphazardly slicing up a golden yellow apple. “Here.” He smiled coyly, sliding the cutting board over towards Virgil before rushing off to grab his own bowl.

“Thanks...” Virgil said hesitantly, sliding in the apples and mixing everything with a wooden spoon, hand held almost fearfully around the handle.

They worked in silence for a bit, the only sound was the occasional cough, shifting of ingredients, or slosh from mixing. 

Then as Patton tried to move his bowl it slipped out his grasp clattering to the floor, mixture spilling across the beige tiles.

“Oh dear..” Patton mumbled, he looked as if he were going to burst into tears kneeling over as he tried to wash it up with some paper towels.

“Here.” Virgil interjected, grabbing a rag and going over to help him clean it up, sitting next to him on the cold floor. Their lines had crossed.

—-

June 22nd 

Roman dug his heels into the hot dirt, shoes pushing through the piles of smoldering leaves, bright green ones brushing against his face. It was quite hot that day, as it was every other summer day, but luckily it was a rather comfortable hot. Roman swung his left arm, picnic basket making a sweet hum as the leftover fruits tousled around inside, the plates luckily had been secured in tight cloth pockets. His right hand was intertwined with Virgils, it almost always was. Roman had heard Patton once go on about all relationships having their quirks. Roman and Virgil didn’t kiss much besides from morning pecks on the forehead, and Virgil had times when he really couldn’t stand much comfort yet still wanted to feel grounded, so maybe hand holding had become theirs. 

Virgil led the way, pulling Roman through a veil of leaves, summer blossoms fluttering out of their nests of green, landing on the shady ground. 

Then Roman tripped.

Leg catching on a vine running through the dirt. He tumbled hands waving around frantically as he fell flat on his back, sliding down the slight incline, his ankle still hanging on as he stayed ensnared in the natural trap.

“Wow, are you ok?” Virgil asked, hands resting his hips and surveyed the situation. Feeling a small pain in his gut as he noticed Romans teary eyes, a whimper escaping the ‘Princes’ sealed lips. He looked like he was biting his tongue in order to stop himself from crying.

“I’m-fine.” He whispered attempting to get to his feet but he ended up just getting more stuck. Virgil sighed, walking over and helping him up, finding a place where he could sit comfortably while Virgil untangled the vine.

“Why don’t I carry you back to the car?” Virgil asked, spreading his wings in advance as he finished with the floral snare, tossing the little green viper off into the depths of the forest.

“Sounds good, when we get back I’ll make sure to tell you to shut up.” Roman chuckled as Vigril embraced him, sun sprinkling down upon them through the thick canopy. 

“Oh, then does that mean I am supposed to ask you if you chirp?” Virgil laughed, as Roman turned a slight crimson, looking away with a small pout.

“Shut up.” Roman smirked as Virgil drew him in for a soft kiss. 

—

‘Dear Patton,

You aren't receiving my texts or simply not responding, and I’ve already come to your door, so I thought I’d write you a letter, and if you don’t respond to this, I’ll get the metaphorical message and never contact you again.

I’ve been pretty sure all my life that avians, as I believe you may be, should have their wings removed. It simply seemed logical, wings are a genetic disease, there is scientific proof they leave their owner more susceptible to injury or sickness. They also make the target subjective to discrimination. 

I have taken our time apart to do a bit more research on this topic, and I believe I may have been mistaken. It seems that this issue is a lot more than just remove:good, and keep:bad. I am sorry if my ignorance has upset you. 

I love you Patton, you are an utter anomaly and one of the most complicated people to ever fall into my life, and that makes me indescribably happy. And I want to be with you, wings or not.

Your truly,  
Logan’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah the title is honestly pretty obtuse ummm, I swear it applies it’s just a kinda weird.
> 
> Also, I haven’t tested it out, but this is the recipe I referenced for the apple crumble:  
> https://www.shugarysweets.com/apple-crumble/


	9. Epilogue

Virgil stalked through the thin ribboning grass, waves of wild oats brushing past dancing through the air amongst slowly falling drops of cotton. A chorus of humming clears filling the airy silence as the avian surveyed the dry pasture. It was a rich summer morning, sweat dripping down his cheek as he took a second to catch his breath: They had been walking for well over an hour.

He pushed a back down brambles, stumbling over a gathering of pebbles as he crossed the bed of grass onto a small stretch of rusty sand. He tightened his grip against the bokae of blood red roses, hugging them against his chest, thorns knotting into the murky grey of his sweater. 

Stood in front of him, old train tracks, they’d been abandoned years ago leaving the rotting wood and chipped metal to become tangled in black-eyed susans, and clusters of moon flowers. Approaching it, Virgil could see a small cross sticking out of the gravel on the other side of the tracks, wood green with age. 

He sighed, wings spreading out from where they slipped out of his clothes, wind brushing bits of dirt into his eyes as he approached the cross. It was a memorial, faux flora toad against its base, 2 names inscribed atop its weak frame. And as Virgil looked around, he could see many more graves and crosses surrounding the tracks. He sat next to it, wrapping a wing around it as he lay the floor down on the steaming rocks.

‘In memorial of Dee and Remus.’

It was nice, just sitting in the warm sun, the intelligible noise of wind and wild birds to keep him company. “I guess this is a weird reunion huh?” He asked the memorial, a small smile licking his lips, it all just felt uncomfortably charming. “Yeah… I guess I’ll just tell you how I’ve been.”

And he did.

He went on tearful drabbels about how he’d felt after his they’d left, chuckled about the time he tried to migrate with a flock of geese, ranted about how unfair it was that he wasn't able to be himself, and simply stood there blankly as he contemplated what to say next. He’d thought about the entire car ride, walk over, hours spent on contemplating hat he wanted to say, and despite all that, he still couldn’t come to a conclusion.

“I miss you guys you know. I hope it’s nice wherever you are now. And Dee, Remus, I hope even if you're not anywhere that it’s at least you have what we never got to have together, peaceful silence.” He hugged the cross closer, wing digging into the sharp wood, a nail tearing at his skin slightly.

“Virgil?” Roman was standing on the other side of the tracks, wading through the bushes and stepping onto the gold dust. He smiled shyly, brushing some hair out his face, tucking his hands into his black pants that countered his bright red shirt that had a small crown printed in the corner. 

“Roman, let’s go home.” Virgil smield, pulling his wing back as he slowly got to his feet, eyes brimming with a strange feel of conclusion. “Wouldn’t want Patton and Logan waiting.” Virgil chukled, standing at the edge of the tracks.

There they stood, a carefully knitted web of metal keeping them apart, like they were two different sides of the same coin.

“Are you sure, they can just go picnic by themselves. you don’t need to rush.” Roman soothed.

“Nah, I think I’m ready.”


End file.
